From A Distance
by Setep Ka Tawy
Summary: His palm found the flat, cold stone in front of him; a smooth plane suddenly broken by shallow scars of meaning. Those scars had meant everything to John, he knew. They meant nothing now. Post-Reichenbach with Sherlock/John and Sherlock/Molly friendships.


My first Sherlock one-shot! I had a wonderful time writing this, I must admit. This is the companion piece to "The Shattered Silhouette" by **Kaelir of** **Lorien, **which takes place immediately following this story; both pieces are linked to our main plot-arc collaboration, "Returning To Tomorrow", which can be found under my stories. If you enjoy reading this, please do pop over and take a peak at the others, particularly Kaelir's one-shot. Cheers!

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**From A Distance**

His pale eyes watched, almost unblinkingly, as the figure of John Watson strode by several yards away. He could see the rigidity in the other's movements, the too-wide swings of his arms, the hard way in which his shoes met the ground as though trying to punch holes in it. Fists clenching spasmodically, face slightly upturned as though to deny the existence of the inevitable tears. Jaw set, gaze determinedly forced forward as he marched quickly across the broken sward.

Had it been anyone else, it would have been called running away.

But John was a soldier. Steadfast, almost stone-like in his ability to endure and accept. The lines in his face were pain, and the depth of his eyes was loss. He was accustomed and conditioned to the handling of both.

From where he stood in the shadow of a low-hanging tree nearby, Sherlock Holmes had almost expected the other man to throw a salute.

And the fact that John had not done so – had not been able to bring himself to do so – was eloquent in the extreme.

Sherlock let his gaze follow the familiar figure as it wound its way between the mismatching, silent gravestones, back in the direction of the little church that rose up on the immediate horizon, sharply outlined against the dull sky. After a few moments, any recognisable details that marked John as himself became blurred by distance; had time suddenly gone still, he might have been just another grey stone in a field scattered with them. But time pressed predictably onward, and seconds later, the darkening smudge that was John stepped behind a tall monument near the edge of the graveyard and did not reappear. With nothing to focus on, Sherlock's eyes slipped away to stare into the empty air.

He stood there for a moment, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, feeling an erratic breeze dancing teasingly through his hair, brushing his face with its cool fingertips. That same breath of air twisted its fleeting way through the thin branches of the tree above him, filling his ears with the echo of leaf against leaf. From somewhere behind him, a small bird enhanced the soft rush of sound with its clear, intangible song.

Sherlock blinked slowly in response to the light wind, then turned away. With slow, even steps he began walking, feeling his shoes slipping a bit on the grass, which was still somewhat slick from the previous day's heavy rain. Even with a clear destination in mind, he couldn't prevent his gaze from moving to the corner of his vision, flicking back towards the place where John had vanished.

He hadn't realised, when he came here, how very difficult it would be to do nothing more than observe.

After only half a minute or so, Sherlock found his pace automatically slowing as he approached another tree, this one more stately, more somber. Unlike much of the graveyard, the area around this tree was clear, except for the single headstone set a few feet from where the thick roots burrowed into the earth.

He paused in his stride, head tilting slightly as he looked down at the stone from one side. A few circling steps to the left brought him around to face it, and again, he stood in place. Shoulders hunched, features inscrutable, he stared down at the dark, upright slab, unadorned except for the plain inscription: bold white letters scratched in a shining black surface, and yet they seemed to be emerging from the depths of the stone itself.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

He couldn't deny the strange shiver that made him pull his coat more tightly around his body as he read the words. It was such a stark contrast, and yet uncannily similar to the last time he had come across his name, capitalised, in a publicly-accessible medium. Newspapers all across the country screaming it in black letters on a white page.

White letters on a black stone.

Glancing down, he could make out the faint outline of footprints on the ground, where grass gave way to open earth. Mrs Hudson's delicate steps, accompanied by John's broader, heavier tread. Footprints were all that was left of their presence here. Sherlock wondered suddenly if footprints were all that he would ever see.

He lifted his gaze again, looking over at the base of the headstone. Of course they had left flowers – warm pastel bulbs accented by the fresh green of their stems, a dash of fleeting colour amidst the drab of the surrounding area. Slowly, Sherlock paced over and dropped to one knee beside his grave marker. He could see the vague reflection of his own features mirrored back at him in the dull glint of stone.

Almost hesitantly, he reached out to touch the soft, light petals of the flowers, their heads nodding absently as the movement of his fingers disturbed them. Had anyone asked him, prior to this, his opinion on whose idea the flowers had been, he would have almost certainly said Mrs Hudson. But now, after watching John walk away in such obvious distress, Sherlock found that he couldn't decide which of the two was the more likely candidate. It had, in fact, been John who had actually placed them there….

Sherlock turned his head, so that he was looking past the sharp edges of his written name and into his own eyes. For a moment, he watched the reflection of the tree-line far behind him undulating silently. Without conscious thought, his hand lifted from where it had been caressing the moist silk of a flower petal between thumb and forefinger. His palm found the flat, cold stone in front of him; a smooth plane suddenly broken by shallow scars of meaning.

Those scars had meant everything to John, he knew.

They meant nothing now.

Sherlock drew in a long, hollow breath, dropping his head to stare at the base of the headstone. He could see remnants of dirt along its edges, and the marks where most of it had been swept away, brushed off carefully by gentle, shaking fingers. No stain was wanted to mar the harsh truth.

He felt his eyes flutter closed of their own accord. Part of him wanted so much to let John know that all this was only a veil, the curtain drawn over the final act which only marked the end of part one. It would be so easy to scribble out a note, here and now, and leave it beneath these flowers, and trust that John would find it, and read it, and believe…

Sherlock forced himself to rise to his feet again, one hand absently tugging at his scarf as he stared down at his own grave. It was unexpectedly painful to realise that, for now, he could do no such thing. It was far too soon. John had hardly begun to adjust to moving on without his best friend; that process had to happen, and become the norm, before Sherlock could even contemplate showing himself. And yet, deep inside, he recognised that the longer he waited, the more distant John would become.

It was a distance which could not be avoided.

Raising his head, Sherlock replaced his hands in his pockets and turned slowly in place, letting his eyes roam around the quiet graveyard. He wouldn't be able to return here – this had been a one-time trip, the single visit allowed to him before he disappeared completely. The last time he would see John until he was ready to emerge again into figurative daylight.

Turning his back and walking away, in the opposite direction taken by his only friend, was quite possibly the hardest thing Sherlock had ever forced himself to do.

When he finally arrived at the far edge of the graveyard, it was to find the car that had brought him here still waiting, and its driver watching him expectantly as he approached. Sherlock stepped over the low railing between the grass and the pavement and walked over with his eyes averted.

"Are you, erm, all set, then?" asked Molly, her voice tentative.

Sherlock nodded shortly. He reached out for the door of the passenger seat, but then dropped his hand again and turned to look back in the direction he had come. Molly hesitated, then took a few steps closer to him, her face uplifted to scan his features.

"You're a good friend, you know," she said after a moment, shifting her gaze towards the graveyard. Her words were strangely matter-of-fact, but at the same time filled with a pointed encouragement.

"Am I?" replied Sherlock softly, still looking out across the stone-dotted sward. "I don't feel like a good friend, Molly."

She glanced up at him again. "You are," she said, appearing to bite her lip for a second. "He may not know it – John – I mean, he can't know, obviously, but – you are. You – you're doing all of this – for him." She paused, then added, more quietly and quickly, "I've never seen you do so much – for anyone. It's really good."

Sherlock did not answer right away. He was squinting slightly, as though trying to hold something back. "I've never…cared… so much," he replied after a few moments.

"That's what I mean." Molly nodded quickly. "And John – John knows that, Sherlock, even if – if he doesn't, well, see it right now."

Silence fell again, broken only by the twitter of birdsong and the rustle of the wind darting through the foliage. Sherlock continued to stare out at the graveyard, as though hoping that John would appear again – that the other man would turn, and see him, and run over. He let out a faltering breath, blinking rapidly. A light touch on his arm made him glance down to see Molly standing closer, her eyes looking earnestly up at him.

"It's – it's okay, to cry," she said, slipping her hand into his own.

Sherlock held her gaze for a moment, and his fingers clenched for a second around her hand. But then he shook his head, looking away again. "No," he murmured. "I'm – not going to cry, Molly."

She looked at him for a long few seconds, and then nodded. "Okay." She squeezed his hand, as though that simple act would give him some measure of comfort.

Sherlock gave one last, searching glance in the direction of the graveyard. A moment later, though, he gently detached himself from Molly's grip, pivoting, and pulled open the car door.

"Let's go."

As Molly hurried around to the driver's side, fumbling with the keys, Sherlock hunched himself into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut after him with a sharp movement. His eyes kept trying to look out the window; and each time he lifted his chin slightly and forced his gaze forward again. But it was only with difficulty that he did not look back as they drove away.

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Please do leave your reviews, they always give my morale a nice boost! Especially after writing something so depressing. May the Force be with you.


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